The Ghosts and Hauntings Collection

by Cat Knight

  With every ounce of strength she possessed, she fought back, trying to release herself from the water but she knew she couldn’t hold out long. Hitting backwards with her hands yielded nothing but space. Grabbing the sink again she kicked behind her but found only emptiness.

  It was all she could do not to open her mouth and breathe water, but she couldn’t hold long.

  Somewhere in the struggle Joanne gave up, she knew the fight was lost. This ghost seemed to want her dead. In her last moments of lucid thought, she understood why the other girls were so scared. When they found her dead, would they figure out what happened to her? Would Dan figure it out? The force exerted against her lungs was so strong her mouth burst open.

  “Arrrgh.” The scream would have been loud, if she hadn’t been choking. Joanne’s head was flung back, pulled by the hair and her body tumbled to the ground. Drawing in as much air as her lungs could hold, coughing and spluttering, she lay panting on the ground too grateful to be afraid. Slowly the pain in her lungs dulled and she looked around the tiled floor.

  Now that her breath was back the reality of what happened began to register and she didn’t dare to raise her head. Time ticked on and nothing changed. Whether she lay five or fifteen minutes Joanne could not tell, but eventually she realised she couldn’t play dead forever. Besides she was turning blue with the cold. OK, I’m gonna do it. On the count of three.

  Scrambling up as quickly as she was able, she ran to the far wall supporting her weight against it. Relief that she had made it flowed through her. What the fuck just happened? How come I’m still alive? A flicker in the mirror caught her attention.

  Trepidation crawled in her stomach and over to her limbs.

  Joanne forced herself to turn her head. A young girl reflected back at her, her face was blue and she was dripping wet.

  Joanne began to scream, but the thought of Weaver flying into the bathroom caused her to fling her hands to her mouth.

  After an eternity, Joanne calmed, and her breathing normalised. She dropped to her side and the girl in the mirror held forward a large pink blossom from the Angel’s Trumpet tree.

  Chapter Eleven

  Trembling, Joanne held out a hand towards the image in the mirror. The eyes were mournful, but not violent. The pale girl seemed to beckon her with her mind and despite Joanne’s fear she moved closer a few inches at a time until their hands touched on the mirror, the Angels Trumpet between them. The vision of the young ghost broke apart and dissolved like paper in a pool. Once again, Joanne was alone in the bathroom.

  Gathering her dirty clothes, she walked cautiously to her room wondering if the ghost girl would be in there. What was going on? Why was she showing herself? And what about that THING in the pond? What was that all about? Joanne felt a pang of pity for the ghost girl. She must be desperate. No one wants a ghost around. Well of course they don’t, especially if she tries to kill them!

  Sitting on her bed, and thinking about it, Joanne decided that maybe she wasn’t trying to kill them, perhaps she was trying to show them something important, to do with how she died. Only it was very scary. Because the girl had drowned in the baptismal font. Dan had told her that.

  But that Angels Trumpet? What was that for? A warning? A threat? Joanne held her head in her hands, not knowing what to think, or what to do.

  It was getting late and if she wanted to avoid any more trouble she needed to be at the table on time for dinner, so she dressed in her clean clothes and looked around for her ring. It almost always stayed attached to her finger and she felt naked without it. The only time it was removed was for occasions where it might become damaged. Years ago, her grandmother had given it to her. It was a ruby, her birthstone, and it had belonged to the one person who seemed to truly love her and linked her back through the years to a time when life was kinder. Shit! I’m sure I brought it in. Maybe I didn’t…. there’s been a lot on my mind.

  Joanne turned out every drawer, stripped the bed, looked under it and in every nook and cranny in the room. She even searched her backpack and suitcase to see if it somehow had wound up in there. Hot tears brimmed in her eyes. Losing that ring would be about the only thing that could make her cry.

  Having exhausted every place in the room she could possibly have put it, and even those she couldn’t have, Joanne sat on the bed, breathing silent little sobs and wiping dry eyes. About a meter from her, the ghost girl appeared, holding a shiny glinting object. Joanne’s ring.

  Jumping up from the bed, Joanne lunged at her, but the ghost girl headed out the bedroom. Racing behind, she chased her ring and the apparition down the hall. All of the doors on the second floor were locked, except Joanne’s, and Joanne had no idea where she could possibly be going. At the end of the corridor, a door was opened, still slightly swinging.

  She went through and found herself in a section of hallway that right angled off the main corridor just a few meters away from the top of the stairs.

  It was dark since the only light that came from it was the open door behind her. A creak sounded further down the passage way and a crack of sunshine appeared from where a door opened up. Wondering where on earth she could be, Joanne knew that the ghost wanted her there and if she wanted her ring back, she’d better follow.

  The room was sparsely furnished, like all the rooms in the house. Despite the apparent wealth of the original Weaver family, materialism was discouraged.

  From the few items abandoned on the shelves, it had been a boy’s room. Wooden cars and an old teddy bear were carefully on display, yet long neglected. From the window, the chapel was clearly visible. The room was a small depressing space even though the sun filled the it.

  “What is so important about an empty room?” She wondered aloud. The creak of old, dry hinges echoed through the abandoned room, Joanne turned to see a door in the corner of the room open slightly.

  Slowly and with deliberate steps, she crossed to the door and pulled it wide. She was hoping to find a closet full of a child’s treasures, but there was another short, dark corridor instead. Hesitantly crossing the threshold, the bedroom door slammed closed behind her and she heard the unmistakable sound of gears turning in the lock. A cry escaped her mouth; she clamped her hand over it.

  Running back through the passages she tried the knob on the bedroom door, but as she knew it would be, it was shut up tight.

  Joanne’s mouth was dry. One part of her mind reasoned as before, if the ghost had wanted her dead, that would have happened already.

  The trouble was, reason wasn’t winning out right now.

  Drawing upon every ounce of resolution she possessed, Joanne went back to the hallway and entered it. Perhaps the door that she could see would be an exit. Placing her hand firmly on the steel knob, she turned it. There was no resistance, it opened up.

  Cautiously she stepped inside to an old-fashioned living room. It was filled with mementos and knickknacks and Joanne’s ring sat on a bureau in plain sight. Happiness flooded through her. Running to grab it she fumbled it in her fingers and it landed in a partially opened drawer. Yanking it open and scuffling for her ring she picked it up and, at the same time an old paperback note book found its way into her hands. She was about to discard it when she noticed words written in a childish hand. PARKER ADAMS. PRIVATE. DO NOT READ. Tucking her ring into the palm of her hand she flipped through to the end. The final entry was dated 7th July 1968.

  ‘Something really bad happened today I didn’t know the angel’s seeds would make him so crazy. I just wanted to punish him. I crushed the seeds and put them in his tea to see what would happen. He started talking to nothing and acting peculiar so I snuck and followed him.

  It was funny at first but I didn’t know he would drag them all to the chapel and kill them. I was so scared that he would find me hiding there. But he didn’t.

  And then I realised, maybe there’s a good side. I can finally have the things that are rightfully mine; all those things that David has always had. I’ll just have to pre
tend to be him. I took his body to the pond. No-one will find it, and I’ll be David.’

  Joanne’s throat went dry. Fecking Hell! If Weaver finds out that I saw this….

  She quickly shoved the diary back into the draw and pushed it closed. Having got what she came for she made to leave, but curiosity got the better of her

  Black and white family photographs were dotted around on shelves. On the mantel piece was a family portrait of a tall, dark haired man wearing a dark suit. His arm was around a fair-haired woman wearing a bouffant flip that reminded Joanne of models she’d seen in old magazines. A pretty girl, probably just a few years younger than Joanne, was standing between presumably her parents.

  She was lively, smiling radiantly at whomever was taking the picture. There was something about her that was familiar to Joanne. A spasm rippled through her spine as she realized the connection. It was the girl from the bathroom and dining room mirrors, the girl who stood dripping wet in her bedroom the night of the storm. Next to her, with the father’s firm grip on his shoulder, was a boy who was wearing a Sunday school pin. Dark haired and pale like his father. That had to be the real David Weaver. Wow. No wonder Parker got away with it. He looks just like him.

  She picked up the frame to get a better look when she heard a noise behind her. Startled, the contents of her hand fell, shattering glass all around her feet and her ring rolled under the bureau.

  “What are you doing snooping in my rooms Ms. Williams?” Mr. Weaver's nasty breath was on her neck.

  Chapter Twelve

  The cold calm in his voice made Joanne’s stomach tighten. A sense of danger crept over her skin, causing a myriad of tiny pinpricks on her limbs.

  “I’m sorry, sir.” She bent down to start cleaning up the glass. “I got lost somehow. I didn’t mean to end up in here. It’s a very big house, sir, I’m not used to it yet.”

  He looked to the door that had brought her there; it was still ajar, leading to the dark hallway beyond. His voice was acid.

  “That passage hasn’t been used in years. Those doors are always locked.” He moved towards her again, and Joanne’s stomach clenched tight.

  “I’m sorry, sir. I found it open. I thought it might be a short cut. Ouch!”

  In her nervous state, she gripped a shard of glass too tightly and it cut the palm of her hand. The sight of her blood stopped him.

  “Leave it. I’ll get Martha up here with a dust pan. Go clean yourself for dinner.”

  Hesitating, she opened her mouth about to ask if she could search for her ring. But he didn’t seem in the frame of mind to be reasonable about it, and there was nothing she could do right now but leave. Joanne reluctantly turned to walk back the way she came.

  “Stop. Please, leave through a more civilized path, not through the room of a long dead child. Respect, Ms. Williams.”

  “Yes, sir.” Her lips were trembling and she had trouble keeping the wobble out of her voice. Fear of what she knew about him mixed with bitter resentment, because now she really had lost her precious ring. She swallowed down bile. “Which way should I go?” Weaver face was contorted in an ugly grimace.

  “Perhaps you were too busy snooping to notice that the hallway has another door that will take you down the stairs to the main floor. Be kind enough not to enter my rooms.” His eyes blazed hot coals. Joanne made her way down the stairs, fighting the urge to run. That’s what she’d always done before when things got difficult and dangerous.

  It would be so easy to slip through the private rooms of this Weaver creep, down his staircase, and out the front door. In the drama of running into Weaver, Joanne had tried to be cool, but now the realisation of what she had learned fully hit her. Her heart almost stopped with fright.

  When she finally took breath again the gasp that sounded from her scared even herself. Joanne knew what she had to do. Weaver was probably jumping to conclusions; he might work it out and realise she already knew. Running away seemed like the best idea.

  Better she takes her chances in a detention centre than here. Weaver would kill her and she’d wind up in the pond with that flesh eaten corpse. Or maybe he’d do something else with her and she’d haunt the hallways like ghost girl.

  Reaching the main hallway, she double backed and lightly trod the floors to her room. Throwing her stuff into her suitcase and stuffing whatever was left into her backpack, she looked around the room.

  A sense of indignation and anger crossed over her as she thought about her grandmother’s ring.

  “I don’t know if you’re hearing this, but you didn’t have to take my ring Sharon. It was the one thing that meant anything to me and now, because of you, I’ve lost it, and - thanks a lot – but I’m probably headed to juvey because I have to leave. Weaver is going to do me in. I know about the Angels Trumpet sending your father crazy and I know about your brother. I’m sorry I couldn’t help you, but I’m leaving now. Don’t try to stop me or I’ll….” Joanne couldn’t think what she would do. How do you fight a ghost? “Well, better luck next time.”

  The door clicked quietly and she snuck down the stairs. There was a way to cut through the woods. She’d seen the road from her bedroom window. That would be on the main highway and she’d hitch a ride out of this God forsaken place and make her way to the city. As soon as she could she’d change her hair and... oh, well, she’d make up the rest as she went along. Martha was busy in the kitchen; she could hear the clang of pots plates and cutlery.

  Sneaking past the drawing room door she breathed a relieved sigh.

  Jasmine and Evette had their heads stuck together looking at the computer screen and she slipped past them. Now she just needed to get out of the front door and off the property without being seen. Quietly unlatching the door she sleuthed her way around the back of the house toward the woods, her heart pounding at a crazy rate in her chest. Martha stepped out of the back door, a sad and disappointed expression on her face.

  “Here she is, Mr. Weaver. Should I call the police?”

  Joanne looked at her in a brief moment of shock and headed into the woods, dropping her suitcase on the way.

  Weaver would know she was headed to the highway. If she could just hide until night drew in, she might have a chance. Ripping off her bright green shirt, leaving just her brown camisole underneath, she stuffed the shirt into her back pack and flung it as far away to the side of her as she could, then crouched low, walking on bent legs and steadying herself with her hands while trying to find a thicket to hide in.

  Her own heaving breaths threatened to give her away and she clamped her hands over her mouth. The sound of hurried shoes breaking twigs came through the still forest air. Weaver was on the hunt. Joanne scanned the forest, peeking through brush and leaves.

  A short distance away his tall narrow body wound its way in her direction. Searching around for a broken branch to hit him with, or stab him if she could, a glimmering figure caught her eye. The wet and sodden silhouette of Sharon was sitting on the ground beckoning her. Deep in trouble, hiding in the woods from someone who would take her life, Joanne was torn between taking her chances with the ghost or with Weaver.

  Things didn’t seem so clear. What if I got Sharon wrong? Maybe she’s lonely and she wants a playmate. It sure seems like she is trying to get me killed.

  The ghost moved a few more paces away back toward the house, looked back at Joanne and waited again. Joanne still remained where she was. A harsh snapping sound cracked through the forest close by. Weaver had seen her and was running full pelt. Joanne had to make a choice. Jumping up she took off to follow the eerie glow. Leaping over fallen logs and bracken, her fourteen-year-old body hurtled away from Weaver, who, although thin, was not as fit. Joanne raced behind Sharon past the house, up the path, and toward the crumbling chapel.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Sharon’s form slipped right through the solid structure into the chapel, but Joanne’s had to use all of her strength to push the door open. It creaked and groaned as she heaved he
r weight against it. Finally, the old door conceded and opened up. She lay her back against the inside of it, closing it shut again.

  Through the dim light of the stained-glass windows, Joanne could see that the alter was festooned with old candles covered in spider webs. Standing with her hands on her knees, bent at the waist panting and recovering her breath, she looked around her wondering what she was supposed to do, or where she could go.

  Glancing over at the glowing energy form she hissed, “I’m trapped.”

  But Sharon simply hovered. A grinding noise at the door told her Weaver was there, Joanne slipped under a pew and hid in the shadows.

  With a heave of his shoulder Weaver was through the door. His footsteps trod loud on the old wooden floor. But except for his laboured breathing, the atmosphere was eerily silent.

  The stone walls of the chapel were thick, keeping out all sound yet echoing the sounds within.

  Sharon’s form hung in space midway to the ceiling and with some surprise Joanne realised he could not see her. A fleeting thought passed over her mind. Perhaps seeing a ghost was nothing to do with a live person but instead a ghost chose who could see it.

  Once he regained his breath he made his way over to the alter and felt around until he retrieved a box of matches. Beginning at one end, he lit each vintage candle until the chapel was bathed in a soft golden glow.

  Pulling gloves from his pocket, he put them on. Joanne watched him pull them firmly around his wrists and then reach back into his pocket to remove a large pink, yellow, and white blossom wrapped in plastic. Taking the flower out he placed it on the alter and said in a too loud voice.

  “I haven’t been in here since I was a little boy. Nothing’s changed. The candles and the matches are exactly where I remembered them.”